SPA-Aaaah?

I have yet to figure out how to do the whole “spa” thing.

My first spa experience was when I attended a Mother’s Day event at the girls’ preschool. Upon arrival I am ushered into a foot-high chair intended for a child with a backside one quarter the size of mine. My shoes and socks are whisked away so that I can soak my feet in tepid water in a paint bucket. Overcome with excitement, the girls are screaming “RELAX MOMMY! RELAX!!!!”. They apply soggy cucumbers to my eye lids – which, having never heard of this fruit-on-face treatment was rather alarming. Then with sticky fingers they gave me a scalp massage that felt like little spiders were crawling all over my head. While adorable, given that this all took place in a hot bed of warts, lice and conjunctivitis, I have to admit I found it hard to “RELAX!!!” [1]

For most people the gateway drug to the spa world is the manicure. This entryway was a non-starter for me. Growing up there was an ad for Palmolive dishwashing soap where they showed two hands side by side and queried “Can you see the difference?”. The difference being that one hand was gnarled and wrinkled and looked like it belonged to a mummy; the other looked like a goddess’ hand just emerged from a bag of paraffin. Even as a kid my hands looked – and apparently felt - like the witchy-poo one. Once, at one of my very first parties, I was introduced to a cute boy. He shook my hand…and then held it for a couple of beats…long enough for me to ponder whether this was some kind of pass. Then he asked, “Do you play a racquet sport?”. (I did not.) Another time a guitarist, also notably attractive, asked me if I, like he, had burnt my palms as a child. He said it made you a better guitarist. (I had not burnt my palms. And I cannot play the guitar.) Having the hands of a callused octogenarian meant that paying money on a manicure was never going to happen. This is true even now that my actual age is starting to catch up to my hand age.  

The closest I have come to a manicure was when I was held captive in the LUSH store. The girls were in line to buy bath balms that turned your tub water into a human mimosa and soap slabs the size of concrete blocks (for approximately 10,000% mark up over cost). I am hovering at the doorway, trying to find air that isn’t a sensory assault. The perfume-induced headache is addling my brain and I make the mistake of trying a hand cream sample. Next thing I know one of the store’s “Beauty Agents” has my hand in a death lock. She starts aggressively massaging the cream into my eczema cracked fingers, while staring intently into my eyes as she tells me all the health benefits of a product that is basically Vaseline with rose water drops. This goes on for…I kid you not…at least TEN MINUTES. I am giving the girls “Help!” rescue-me eyes. But they think it’s funny - which it is – and are just sitting by and laughing. Finally, the woman stops, and I break it to her that I am “not interested”. Afterwards my hands were weirdly imbalanced: my creamy hand felt mildly violated, while the other hand felt excluded. 

My second spa attempt was another Mother’s Day gift: a night alone at a retreat. In the early 2000s, “me time” was a thing. But it wasn’t (/isn’t) a Me thing. It’s not that I don’t like my own company - I just like M’s more. Also, I find solo time comes with pressure to have deep thoughts – the kind worthy of jotting down in a journal. At the time, as a mother of three under 5, I had no deep thoughts. I had no brain capacity whatsoever.[2] But grateful for the good intentions, I set off, dot-journal in hand, for a night of self-care and introspection. Unfortunately, it turned out this was more of a couple’s place – at least on a Friday night. I am the only single person there. Everyone else is all smoochy-smoochy and feeding each other food tidbits, while I am solo drinking and wishing I liked my book better.

After dinner I go for my “relaxation & hydration” treatment. This starts with a massage, which isn’t great for a person with a personal space bubble as expansive and strictly defined as mine. Also, I am ticklish. Not tee-hee ticklish. Lash-out angry ticklish.[3] So, I kept stiffening up every time she touched me.

“Re-laaaaaax”, she cooed. “Re-laaaaax”. 

I thought that schooling myself not to slug the massage therapist was the biggest hurdle to enjoying this experience. I was wrong. The next step was “the wrap”. This entailed slathering my body with goo and then wrapping me in cellophane like a giant sausage. The spa person then put on bubbly water music and left me to … marinate? If I moved a millimeter, I crinkled like a human embodiment of ASRM.[4] I tried to enjoy the experience. I really did. But all I could think was, A) what happens if there is a fire. Do I hop, arms lashed to my sides in a Saran Wrap straight jacket and try to open the door with my mouth like a Mr. Bean skit? And B) I have to pee…like, bad…like, real bad…like 3 glasses of spa water, 2 herbal teas and one glass of cheap “Prosecco” bad.[5] I don’t know how long I was left there, 30 minutes? A day? But I can assure you, I did not “Re-laaaaax”.      

When it comes to relaxation, I have an affinity for hot baths and other ways to basically bake or boil myself. I would try to sneak in a few moments of aquatic self-care during the girls’ swim lessons. I frequented the lukewarm “hot” tubs at the city pool or the science project steam room at the - and I cannot stress this enough – unrenovated, original YMCA. The hot tubs invariably meant sitting skin-to-skin with strangers, and the steam room, that dripped recycled sweat down on your head, had a high risk of old person nakedness and/or perv-alert. So, the rise of the Nordic spa opened a whole new path of pampering possibility. M & I and two friends set out to our town’s rendition of Scandinavian wellness to hot/cold/chill/repeat for the night. But once again it quickly become apparent that this is not a fit for me.

The whole place is super quiet, and the “Shush!” patrol is hyper vigilant. This is a problem because I am a loud talker and also have trouble conforming to rules. D, who is the same, but worse, is working as a good cover for me. He arrives in the pools area with his hockey jersey name patch affixed to his robe, and contraband beers in his pockets. The one time he kept quiet was in the “dark sky” pool overlooking the city lights. My friend, D’s wife, is standing in the middle of the pool admiring the view. She’s having a beautiful, serene moment. It’s dead quiet. Next thing I know, D is slowly sinking into the two feet deep water, alligator style like a re-enactment of an Animal Kingdom scene. He starts underwater swimming in her direction. I immediately see where this is going but am too dumbstruck to call out a warning. (I am also excited to see this truly poor martial decision making in action). Like an anaconda, he stealthily creeps towards her, then from under the water grabs her legs. Causing her to SCREAM - a scream that everyone, in every corner of the spa, must have heard. I am cackling. Loudly. This is how non-spa people respond to “quiet space” situations.

Our group flees the scene of the scream-crime and hides in a nearby sauna. As we settle in, it’s mostly empty, but soon a whole ton of people start streaming in until every space is filled. Behind the heater I spot a large basket with the most perfectly formed snowballs I have ever seen. I am intrigued.

Me: Elbow prodding D, “Check out those snowballs.”
D: “They must be to put on the sauna stove.”
Me: “We should do it” …Elbow. Elbow. Elbow…

I will admit that by “we”, I meant “he”. I didn’t really think he would, even though he did just cause a scene in the dark pool. But he is a very responsive individual, who clearly had too much faith in my judgment. Feeding his way down from the top corner, through the all the people, D goes up to the front, takes two of the huge snowballs and puts them on the heater. Instantly the whole room is suffused with Eucalyptus (which reminds me of Vic’s vapour rub. Yuk.). D sits back down just as a Gong starts going off outside the sauna, and a lithe dancer-type with a wrap skirt and matching top comes in. She takes a breath of essential oil air and scowls at the snowball basket. D and I shrink down, hoping our guilt does not show on our faces.

“Who touched my balls?” she asked in a tone that clearly indicated that by “who”, she meant “what idiot”.

Everyone rotates and looks directly at us. “It was her idea”, says D pointing at me (which was true, but still). While she leaves to replenish her snowball supply, we scurry out in shame. (We later learned that this was a towel dance show: a highlight of the Nordic experience, for which the series of aroma infused snowballs are a critical part.)

So, again, STILL in search of relaxation, we head next to a barrel sauna. It’s quite small for the four of us. M & D decide it’s not hot enough. So, fresh off the snowball lesson, they head outside for some snow. They return with their robes held up basket style, packed full of snow…and proceed to dump all of it onto the stove. Immediately this is clearly a HUGE mistake. The air is instantly so hot and the steam so dense that it incinerates our nose hairs and is burning our esophagi in a way that felt potentially permanent. Possibly fatal. Madly we all rush to the door, clambering over each other to get outside where we all start yelling various blasphemes (both generally and directed at the snow haulers). To which everyone in the spa responds: “SHHHHH!” (But, in a WTF-is-wrong-with-you-people way. Geez, these spa people are so sensitive).

I had a great time. But it was still a relaxation fail. Not only did we not relax that night, nor did everyone around us.

All said, I have learned that I am just not a spa person. They invariably involve a lot of uncomfortable silence, smelly scents, awkward touching, PDA, and, for no apparently reason, cucumbers.

None of which I am all that into.  

I think I am more of a tree bather.  

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[1] This concern was justified given that a single wart acquired at friend A’s pool party gave rise to over a decade of the girls exchanging fungi despite multiple trips to the doctor for a treatment made of crushed beetles that we called “Beetlejuice”. It was the loot bag gift that just kept on giving.

[2] Plus, as my posts have no doubt illustrated, my thoughts don’t run that deep at the best of times.

[3] I once kicked my brother in the nuts in response to being tickled. I clearly remember our mom dragging me over to apologize, while explaining about boys’ “sensitive parts”. I can only imagine that the apology was more excruciating than the busted balls.

[4] "Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response" refers to the "tingly feeling" that travels from the head downward that some experience in response to certain sounds, feelings, or descriptions. These can include soft whispering, crinkling paper, or a gentle touch. ASMR gives me the heebie-jeebies.

[5] Spas really want to ply you with drinks. I always max out these offerings because otherwise I feel like I am leaving something on the table. I recognize that this “get your money’s worth” approach is totally counter to the whole Zen experience. 

And what’s with the cucumber water? Are they reusing the eyelid slices?